


To Touch

by por_queeee



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dubious Consent, Groping, M/M, Masturbation, Somnophilia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-27
Updated: 2013-02-27
Packaged: 2017-12-03 20:28:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/702319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/por_queeee/pseuds/por_queeee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel has reasons for watching Dean sleep that he finds himself unwilling to admit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Touch

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a prompt on the Supernatural kink meme: "Cas loves watching Dean sleep... Possibly too much."

Dean is stretched haphazardly across the bed, face lax with the kind of sleep he only seems capable of obtaining after alcohol, sex, or a hunt. In this case it can be ascribed to the latter, and the scratches and cuts left by the chimera on Dean’s exposed chest and arms are testament to this fact.

The angel stands over him, takes in the gentle rise and fall of the hunter’s bare chest, and silently adds covetousness to the list of sins and blasphemies that he has committed. That Dean Winchester has caused him to commit.

It’s certainly not the first time he’s watched Dean sleep, nor will it be the last, but Castiel knows his motivations have changed drastically. At first it had been out of concern; when he had pulled Dean from hell there had been the inevitable nightmares afterwards, and Castiel had felt… Sympathy. Protectiveness. They were the burgeoning emotions of someone who was essentially a child in terms of inhabiting a human body, a being unused to having sensations and feelings that were so acutely pinpointed. Even then, when he was relatively numb to the sensations of humanity, it had felt like tidal waves crashing against his vessel’s chest. He had stood and watched the man toss and turn and silently scream, and after many nights of indecision had started to interfere; to push away the nightmares and give Dean peace, if only in his dreams. 

But at some point it had ceased to be about protectiveness, about any sense of responsibility he had for the man. Those emotions remained, coiled in a chest that now belonged wholly to Castiel rather than Jimmy Novak, but something else had grown next to them. Something alien to Castiel, torturous but in some way not unwelcome. 

Castiel’s eyes rake hungrily over the sleeping figure, the parted lips, the smooth muscles. He focuses on the handprint he had left, indelible proof of their connection, a mark of possession. He skims over every inch of exposed skin, stopping only at the sheet that covers Dean from the waist down, and he feels the familiar tug of what he now knows to be arousal. It had been so confusing the first time he realized its connection to Dean’s presence- something that made him want to touch and feel and take in ways that scared him- but now he knows it for what it is and is not frightened so much as ashamed.  
He steps closer, effortlessly quiet, and sinks gently onto the mattress next to Dean, who shifts slightly in his sleep, grunting softly. The ripple of tendon and muscle in even so subtle a movement entrances Castiel, and he remembers the time when watching in this way had been enough. But now he longs too desperately to know how Dean would feel to the touch of human hands; he has inhabited this vessel for so long now that it’s easy to suppress his grace, to allow the sensation of every nerve ending to overwhelm him, and it leaves him wondering. He had created and molded every bone, every capillary in that body, and yet it was not the same as knowing the skin’s feel or taste.

He is hard now, as he often is when watching Dean. It gives him a thrill to see the other man so vulnerable, to know how easy it would be to lean over and press their lips together and show Dean just what he has done, what he has turned Castiel into. He reaches down to palm his erection through his pants, eyes fluttering at the pressure but never leaving the planes of Dean’s body. The intricacies of this new set of emotions he feels never fail to amaze him- this blasphemous worship and love of Dean’s body, of the soul trapped within that shines as brightly as any super nova. The simultaneous anger and frustration that he can’t have what he wants, can never have it.

Gingerly he reaches out with his other hand, still rubbing himself jerkily through the cloth of his pants, brushing his fingertips over the ridge of Dean’s ribcage. When Dean doesn’t move he caresses again, firmer this time, eyes half-lidded with overwhelming lust at the simple contact of skin on skin. He lets his hand trail lower, on Dean’s belly now, and stops rubbing himself only long enough to gently lift and remove the sheet so that nothing blocks his gaze but Dean’s flimsy boxer-shorts.  
His breath hitches as he takes in the picture before him and he trails his touches slowly lower, lovingly brushing over the jut of a hip, venturing carefully inwards to rub at a thigh, beginning to stroke at his own clothed erection faster, harder. Already he’s biting the inside of his lip just to keep from crying out, and how strange it is to finally understand why humans are so vocal.

Even with the layer of cloth (which he has yet to breach during these excursions, as if fabric can separate him from the reality of what he’s really doing to himself,) it doesn’t take Castiel long to near the precipice of his pleasure. His self-ministrations are frantic now, hurried, and he licks at chapped lips as his other hand continues it’s hungry journey over the details of Dean’s body.

“Dean” he breathes, struggling not to buck into his own palm, growing bolder in his touches as he firmly pets at the other man’s prone form, imagining what it would be like to lick and suck and bite, to worship the righteous man the way he deserves. A glance back to the hand shaped scar on Dean’s shoulder is all he needs, and he’s coming, hand twitching to grasp at Dean’s knee, anchoring himself as if the wave of pleasure is enough to expel him from his own vessel, and his grace blooms inside him and vibrates throughout every cell of his body.

It takes a moment for the aftershocks to pass, for Castiel to find himself again. Shakily he removes his hand from Dean’s leg, the familiar guilt twisting at his insides now, the way it always does in the quiet space after, and he stands. He can’t even bring himself to look at Dean, to see him sleeping innocently and unaware of the ways he’s been defiled. And so he doesn’t, simply extends his grace to clean the evidence of his weakness from his underwear, then gives a beat of his wings and is gone.

Dean Winchester squeezes his eyes shut even tighter and swallows shakily, grabbing desperately for the blanket and pulling it over himself. He doesn’t think he’ll be able to go back to sleep again.


End file.
